An Ostensible Invitation
by Ninnik Nishukan
Summary: In which a hurt Hermione confronts Ron, trying to find out why he's suddenly giving her the cold shoulder after she'd invited him to Slughorn's Christmas party and he'd seemed to accept. Just because I wondered why she didn't. Half-Blood Prince what-if.
1. Row, Row, Row Your Boat

**An Ostensible Invitation**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Summary: **In which a hurt Hermione confronts Ron, trying to find out why he's suddenly giving her the cold shoulder after she'd invited him to Slughorn's Christmas party and he'd seemed to accept. Just because I wondered why she didn't.

_Half-blood __Prince_ what-if. Some dialogue in the story taken from book six out of necessity (and some slightly altered), but not, I believe, enough for it to be bothersome.

* * *

_"You were going to ask me?" asked Ron, in a completely different voice.  
"Yes," said Hermione angrily. "But obviously if you'd rather I hooked up with McLaggen . . ."  
There was a pause while Harry continued to pound the resilient pod with a trowel.  
"No, I wouldn't," said Ron, in a very quiet voice._

_"Do you think Hermione did snog Krum?" Ron asked abruptly, as they approached the Fat Lady. Harry gave a guilty start and wrenched his imagination away from a corridor in which no Ron intruded, in which he and Ginny were quite alone -  
"What?" he said confusedly. "Oh . . . er . . ."  
The honest answer was "yes," but he did not want to give it. However, Ron seemed to gather the worst from the look on Harry's face._

~_Harry __Potter __and __the __Half-Blood __Prince,_ chapter fourteen: _Felix __Felicis, _by J.K. Rowling

* * *

Ron was stalking towards his next class, clutching his book bag tightly, his fingernails digging into the worn, old leather as if seeking vengeance, his shoulders hunched and teeth gritted, when Hermione caught up with him, dispelling his sullen little masochistic session of conjuring up mental images of her and Krum.

Hermione glanced sidelong at him as they walked, her almost jogging to keep up; he could feel her eyes on him. "So you've changed your mind, then?"

So far, in reacting to his withdrawn and cold demeanour that day, she'd merely sounded offended and confused. Her now unexpectedly timid tone gave him pause.

"Er…what?" he asked, coming to a halt in the corridor, ignoring the other students still flowing around them like water past a rock. Ron did notice, however, that one of these students included Harry, whom he'd accidentally left a bit behind, his long legs propelled forward by his foul mood. Harry simply hurried past with a glance but without a word, like he wanted no part in this.

Sniffing, Hermione drew herself up in a dignified manner. "Well, I suppose we didn't really make a proper _appointment _as such, but I still thought…I got the impression you wanted to go."

He blinked at her. "Go?"

Hermione nodded impatiently. "Yes, to Slughorn's Christmas party, of _course_— but considering your _behaviour_ all day, I assume you've changed your _mind_!" Her voice dropped in volume, then, growing tense: "Or perhaps you never wanted to go in the first place."

Ron swallowed, managing a glare. "You never actually _invited _me, you know, you basically just said you'd thought about it— and we were arguing at the time— how is an argument an invitation?" On some level, Ron knew he was being unfair. If he was honest with himself, he knew he had _indeed_ taken it as an invitation. In fact, he'd even felt quite _pleased_ with how well it had all worked out…or at least until Ginny had provided him with a generous helping of revelation and humiliation.

Hermione gave him a long, indecipherable look; he had to force himself not to squirm. "Ron, I thought it was perfectly clear that I was inviting you. We'd stopped arguing, and I thought we'd come to an understanding," she said softly, and it was the lack of the usual shrill fury that got to him. "What's changed? What's going on? Please explain yourself right now."

His face burned. He had the terrible feeling she'd think it was all ridiculous, and had no desire to "explain" himself at all. "It doesn't matter, does it? I'm sure there are plenty of _Slug __Club_ boys there to keep you entertained, anyway," he hedged, his voice tight and his eyes glued to his battered book bag. "You wouldn't want to bring an as common as muck outsider like me, it'd only make them misunderstand, and that'd ruin your chance with Sluggy's favourites, like good old _McLaggen_. Wouldn't want that, would we?"

Again, there was an uncomfortable pause. The overbearing understanding behind the words she spoke next made him want to die. He felt so transparent with her, even when she didn't exactly know what was _really_ on his mind. "I don't fancy _any_ of the Slug Club boys, least of all _McLaggen_."

His heart leapt briefly, hearing that, but it still wasn't good enough. It still didn't change anything. It only meant that perhaps not even talented and connected blokes like the wankers who were hand-picked for the Slug Club were good enough for her. "Ah, so _that's_ it, then?" he croaked, his voice sounding nowhere as icy as he'd have liked.

She shook her head faintly, frowning with a sort of bewildered exasperation at him. "What?"

"I _get_ it, Hermione! You'd like me to chaperone, so McLaggen or his chums'll keep their big, hairy mitts off you— well, perhaps I'm looking for more of a _laugh_ of an evening, like doing my _History __of __Magic_ homework," he sneered, before turning on his heel and storming off towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, leaving a shocked Hermione behind him.

* * *

It seemed, however, that Hermione still wasn't going to let the matter lie. After Potions, she intercepted him in the corridor once more, practically running to reach him this time. Apprehensive, Ron scouted around for Harry, who was nowhere to be seen all of a sudden.

"Ronald Weasley," she whispered heatedly, trying to keep the conversation at least semi-private in the rush of students, "I still cannot _fathom_ what I could've _possibly_ done to make you act like this, so I _will_ not let myself be _treated_ this way!"

Ron shifted uneasily, straining against the tight grip she had on the sleeve of his robes. Snape had disapproved of his angry sulk even more than Hermione had, making his lessons even more torturous than usual. Ron wasn't sure if he'd be able to handle another row on top of that.

"You haven't done _anything_," he lied, badly but with great indignation, "not everything's about _you_, you know."

Hermione flushed, reeling back as if she'd been slapped, her grip on his robes slackening. "You must be having me on!" she hissed, dropping his sleeve as though it was a particularly offensive-smelling bag of dirty laundry. "If it's not about _me_, then how come _I'm_ the only one you're being such a _horrible _git towards?"

Ron's nostrils flared with offense. "You know the solution, then, don't you? Just leave me alone, and you won't have to speak to a 'horrible git' anymore!"

"Ron, don't be _daft_!" scolded Hermione.

"Why not, when I'm so _good_ at it?" he retorted sourly.

"Oh, _Ron_, why can't you just _tell_ me and get it _over_ with?" Hermione complained, and there was an exhausted, pleading note in her voice now that caused a needle of guilt to pierce him. "We're supposed to be _friends_! I swear, this is turning into third year all over again, and that's the _last_ thing I—"

"Oh, _friends_, are we?" he released an unnatural laugh, lashing out against said guilt. "Well, if we're such good _friends_, then how come you never told me you _snogged_ Krum?" This wasn't like third year at all, he thought, it was more like fourth year, but he wasn't about to bring _that_ up _now_.

Even as his stomach sank as he got his final, awful confirmation, Ron received a shot of wicked satisfaction from watching her go pale. "Who told you?" Hermione demanded.

"_Ginny_," Ron informed her immediately, with a not insignificant amount of venom, "she had a grand old time rubbing it in my face, too, since she was so bloody keen on pointing out my lack of experience!"

Hermione looked stunned. "Are you honestly telling me that y-you're being…being like _this_ because you're hacked off that I've _kissed _somebody and you haven't?"

Ron spluttered, then tried to find a way to avoid blatantly changing the subject while also avoiding answering her question directly; then he tried to simply stop spluttering. "Do you have _any_ idea how humiliating it is for your _little __sister_ to have more experience than you, and then to have her taunt you, in front of other people, about how the girl you fa—" he seemed to choke, then, before shifting gear: "Harry's snogged Cho, Ginny's snogged half the boys in the school, and you've snogged _Krum_—"

"_Kissed_!" she objected fiercely. "We didn't _snog_— that sounds _so_—"

"Same difference!" he snapped. "I bet you're all having a _right _laugh, talking about poor, inexperienced Ronald Weasley!"

Hermione huffed with wounded exacerbation. "_Stop_ it, Ron, you _know_ Harry and I would _never_— and why are you taking this out on _me_? You've never given _Harry_ a hard time for snogging somebody!"

Ron opened his mouth to speak, then quickly shut it. There was simply no way in which to answer that question that wouldn't cause the entire universe to tilt sickeningly, like an out of control broom.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), when he opened his mouth again, somebody saw fit to block the flow of words for him.

Out of the blue, or out of another classroom, Ron Weasley found himself with a face full of Luna Lovegood, who'd for some reason decided now was as good a time as any to provide him with his very first kiss.

Warm, soft lips pressed unabashedly against his, a delicate hand held him steady by his arm, and large, pale grey eyes gawked at him from an uncomfortably short distance. It seemed nobody had informed Luna she was supposed to close her eyes at a time like this, or perhaps she simply didn't care and prioritized her ever-active curiosity.

His gaze slid up, panicked, seeking Hermione. Past Luna, Hermione drew in a sharp breath of protest, her face turning roughly the shade of oatmeal this time, her brows knitting with perplexed fury.

Finally, Luna let go of him.

"Luna!" Ron exclaimed, goggling at her as he staggered backwards.

Licking her lips in an absentminded manner, Luna tilted her head at him. "I do apologize, Ronald. You're funny, and your mouth really is quite pleasant, but you can be a bit unkind, and I also need a more open-minded person. It's unfortunate, but I doubt you'll ever be able to see a nargle. I thought I'd tell you that, in case you wondered."

Ron gaped after her when she swept away; after a few dignified steps, she started skipping.

For a while, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed able to speak. Down the corridor, a group of third years were snickering. Others were watching them curiously.

In the end, Hermione cleared her throat in a meaningful sort of way. "Problem solved, then," she remarked stonily.

"What?" Ron mumbled, sounding decidedly punch-drunk.

"Are you still going to pester me about Viktor, or should I go get some _more_ girls for you to snog?" Hermione asked, with withering sarcasm. "Maybe somebody from Hufflepuff this time, for a bit of _variation_?"

Ron scanned her face in utter incredulity. "You can't be _serious_! I didn't— it was _her_—"

Scowling, Hermione turned stiffly around and left him standing there, exactly as he'd done to her the last time they'd argued.

Ron cursed under his breath. She really _was_ serious.

* * *

It was all over the school. Why couldn't Luna have chosen a _deserted_ corridor?

Hermione's pursed her lips far too often now, her back too straight. Harry just grinned at him, in that sheepish way he had sometimes, and said nothing.

Lavender Brown, whom he was fairly sure had been eyeing him most of the term (what with her waving and smiling at him, saying hello every time they met in the corridors, giggling when he said something funny in class, and cheering for him during matches), now only gave him the occasional look that carried a sort of puzzled disapproval, and didn't talk to him anymore. No doubt, she'd heard about the Weasel King and Loony Lovegood. Great.

Malfoy, of course, was as pleasant as ever.

"Weasley!" he called after Ron as he left the breakfast table in the Great Hall, coming out of his sickly, withdrawn mood just for him, and didn't he feel oh, so special, "Hoping you'll get to marry into the Lovegoods so you'll get a job at the Quibbler, are you? Can't be more ridiculous than what you write in your Potions essays! Maybe you'll even be able to afford a decent broom, instead of that outdated twig you're riding now!"

All in all, it was definitely one of Malfoy's _weaker _attempts at an insult, so Ron didn't give him the satisfaction of any reply other than a hissed "Piss off, Malfoy".

While he was used to being insulted by that snobby bastard, though, being subjected to a jealous Hermione was new and frightening territory for him.

All right, so he'd seen her jealous before, over Fleur, but that was different. It seemed that all it took for somebody to develop feelings of animosity over Fleur, at least if his mother and Ginny were any judge, was simply to be _female_. Girls and women appeared to hate her almost on principle, so he'd basically figured it had sod all to do with him, as far as Hermione's jealousy was concerned.

But _this_, now…_this_ jealousy _definitely_ involved him, in one way or the other, and he hadn't the first clue about how to deal with it. He was torn between annoyance (he was _innocent_, _Luna_ had kissed _him_!), apprehension (what was Hermione going to _do_?), smugness (see how _she_ liked it, for once) guilt (starting to worry _he'd_ behaved even worse when _he'd_ been jealous of _Krum_), a vague feeling of pride (somebody had finally wanted to kiss him) and yet more annoyance (even though she'd kissed him, Luna had made it _clear_she wasn't interested in pursuing him any further, so what was Hermione's _problem_?).

He wanted to _tell_ her that she couldn't possibly be angry with him, because it hadn't been his choice to kiss Luna, but he suspected she'd only claim he should've tried to stop it, or that he must've done _something_, like _flirted_ with Luna, to make her interested in kissing him in the first place. Which would be a _preposterous_ accusation, of course...yet also somewhat understandable, considering he himself was also trying to suss out why on _Earth_ Luna _had_ kissed him, when he was certain he'd _never_ encouraged her in any way.

And lastly, at times he wasn't even certain Hermione _was_ jealous, not truly jealous, because why would she care who kissed him or not, he was only her useless school mate, and the real reason why she was giving him the cold shoulder had to be because he'd started it, and because they'd had two rows in one day, so who could blame her for— and besides, as nice as Luna was, she wasn't somebody girls would consider a threat, was she? All right, so she was funny, she had a slender figure, long, blonde hair and a cute face, in that odd, pixie-ish sort of way, but her eyes appeared as if they belonged to some kind of deep sea creature, her outfits _had_ to be the end result of raiding the wardrobes of several _very_ dissimilar people, and then there was always the fact that she was completely mental.

Well, at least she was better-looking than Krum, who resembled what Ron imagined a young Snape might've looked like if he'd been athletically inclined and had actually bothered to wash and cut his hair once in a while.

Although he didn't like to admit it even to himself, Ron had in fact devoted _considerable_ time and brain power to comparing Krum to some rather nasty things.

Like right now, slumped in front of the common room fire, for instance, it was a reasonably good way of distracting himself from recent events.

Of course, if he even briefly forgot about this whole mess, there would always be somebody there willing to remind him.

"So…Luna told me she snogged you," purred Ginny, obnoxiously amused and barely bothering to hide it.

"Piss off, Ginny," Ron snarled, "this is all your fault, and you _know_ it!"

Promptly ignoring this accusation, Ginny sat down in the chair next to her brother's. "And right in front of Hermione, no less! So I suppose that rule about snogging in public only applies to _me_, then?"

Ron sputtered a bit, before scowling. "And do you have any idea _why_ she did that, or are you just here to take the mickey?"

Ginny grinned. "Now _that_ one might actually _be_ my fault, at least partly," she confessed, sounding only vaguely repentant.

"_What_?" he demanded sharply.

"Well, you'd been such a prat that I wanted somebody to talk to about it, and I happened to run into Luna," Ginny explained, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. "After I'd told her what had happened during our stupid row about snogging, she went on about how she used to wonder what it'd be like to kiss you, although I have no idea why, and also said she was still curious sometimes, even though she'd arrived at the conclusion you weren't _quite_ as lovely as she'd thought— now _that_ one I _can_ believe! Not like I had any idea she'd haul off and _actually_ snog you, though," she said, snorting, "even if she _did_ say she wondered whether you tasted of raspberries."

_Raspberries_, he thought, his head swimming, _why __do __these __barmy __things __always __happen __to __me?_ "Ginny! It's bad enough the whole school knows I was kissed by Loony Lovegood!" he chastised his sister. "At the rate _you're_ going, everybody will know I hadn't snogged before, either!"

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "I thought you'd stopped calling her that."

Ron gave a heavy groan. "Blimey— sorry, then, _Luna_— I'm just not exactly in a terrific mood here!"

Ginny scrutinized her brother's face in a stern manner before speaking again. "And while Luna may not be an international Quidditch star," she said pointedly, "she's probably more than enough to make Hermione jealous. And experience is experience."

Ron pouted with defiance. "I still don't see how she _could_ be jealous, anyway— I mean, she was _there_, she _saw_ what happened, so she of all people should _know_ I had _no __part_ in it—"

"And since when does jealousy have anything to do with _rationality_?" Ginny challenged in a sarcastically saccharine tone, "_You_ 'of all people' should know _that_, dear brother."

Leaning back in his chair, Ron sent his sister a look that was part scepticism, part hopefulness. "You reckon she really _is_ jealous, then?"

Ginny merely rolled her eyes.

* * *

"Congratulations, Ronald," said Luna, smiling her usual dreamy smile as she approached him in the midst of the noisy victory celebrations. "I see you're startled to see me, and I understand. It's quite unorthodox for a Ravenclaw to be in the Gryffindor common room on such an occasion, but it's all right, because your sister invited me."

Ron, who'd in actuality been startled to see her because he'd been afraid she'd go in for another snog in her post-match enthusiasm, said nothing, relieved as he was that she seemed to want nothing more than a handshake.

His answer was delayed for a few seconds as Dean Thomas came over to slap him on the back and congratulate him before he walked away to join Seamus by the hastily arranged drinks table.

"Cheers, Luna," Ron said at last, happily shaking her still outstretched hand and grinning a bit at her ludicrous lion head hat.

Lavender Brown, passing by them from her own trip to the drinks table, gave them an unusually wide berth, as well as a suspicious and somewhat disbelieving look. Ron got the fleeting impression that one of the two Butterbeers she was carrying might've been intended for him.

"Oh, look, it's Hermione," Luna remarked casually, letting go of his hand. "I'm surprised she's attending, though, considering how hostile you've been towards her lately. Hi, Hermione," she greeted the other girl.

"Hello, Luna," he heard Hermione replying behind him. There was a cautious undertone to it, as if she wasn't quite sure what to think of Luna, or her presence at the party.

Still wincing a bit at Luna's merciless truth-telling, Ron spun around to frown at Hermione. "You've got a lot of nerve, showing up to my party after what you said!"

For a moment, Hermione looked almost as startled as he'd been just a few seconds ago, but her recovery was swift. "It's not _your_ party, Ron, it's for _everyone_ in Gryffindor, which includes _me_!"

Ron noticed that Luna took this moment to float away; he and Hermione seemed to have that effect on a lot of people. "Come to accuse me of something else, have you?" Ron demanded waspishly. "Cheating on my O.W.L's, perhaps? How about blackmailing Dumbledore to get the prefect badge? Or maybe everybody's _recent_ favourite: abusing my friendship with Harry to get the keeper's posi—"

"_Stop_ _it_, Ron," she interrupted, rubbing her temple and glaring at him, "I thought winning this match would finally put you _out _of this horrid mood of yours!"

Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared her down. "Well, until I was treated to your _delightful _commentary on the match, it _had_, hadn't it?"

She seemed to deflate slightly, then. "Ron…I'm sorry for what I said, I just didn't want you to resort to cheating, especially when you don't even need it!" she insisted, before her voice softened. "You played brilliantly."

Ron blinked at her, taken aback by her open sincerity. Well! That was just…she was so…how was he supposed to stay angry with her _now_?

"Yeah, well…said it yourself, didn't you?" he mumbled, at once turning sheepish. "No wonder we both thought…I mean, the _weather_…not one, but even _two_ Slytherin players off bein' ill…did sort of seem like an awful lot of luck, eh?"

Relief flashed across Hermione's face. "Oh, I'm so glad you've realized I was just using _reason_, that I didn't mean—"

But Ron couldn't quite help himself. "Not to mention," he continued in that same low tone, his gaze falling to the bottle in his hand as the self-deprecating joke fell out of his mouth, "that me not being complete rubbish was _bound_ to be caused by some sort of _miracle_—"

"_Look_," Hermione sighed, sounding partly hurt and partly angry, "I may not believe Quidditch is the meaning of _life_, like _you_ and _Harry _do, but I _do_ appreciate how important it is to you, so I would _never_…" Next, her tone went tender again, her eyes growing warm as she looked up and met his directly. "I had every faith in you, Ron."

Ears burning, he felt acutely and inexplicably young, like he was back at the Burrow, never having even left for first year, being praised by his parents for silly drawings that five brothers had all made before him and all probably better; not _quite_ believing the compliments and affection, yet desperately wanting to believe.

"Blimey, Hermione, it's a celebration…let me get you a Butterbeer or something," he murmured, eyes landing shyly upon her face for a moment before he stole away under this flimsy pretence, neck bent and eyes trained on the floor.

When he returned, he was determined to change the subject, although he wasn't sure how he could while attending a party allegedly all _about_ the subject. If he was lucky, maybe Harry would come over to chat. At this point, though, he'd even take being pestered by the Creevey brothers.

* * *

It was the day before Slughorn's Christmas party, and they still hadn't discussed the issue of whether they'd be attending it together or not.

By now, Ron was nearly convinced that Hermione had already decided to go with somebody else; suspicions that had quite efficiently resurrected the frosty wall between them, even if their relationship hadn't deteriorated so far that they were actually _avoiding_ each other.

And currently, Ron was occupying himself, in between half-hearted attempts at his Potions essay, by scowling at the back of Hermione's head as she sat bent over her Arithmancy essay in the common room.

"So…who are you taking to the party, Harry?" asked Ron, when he found himself correcting a sentence for the third time due to lack of concentration.

Looking up from the same essay, or rather from his 'extended' copy of _Advanced __Potions_, Harry blinked owlishly at him, as if he'd been lost in the material. "Er…actually, Luna said she'd come with me."

"What, _Lovegood_?" asked Ron incredulously, just in case he'd misunderstood.

Harry shrugged. "Do we know any other Lunas? Dunno, I bumped into her on my way to the bathroom yesterday— she was being bothered by some Ravenclaw girls about that whole snogging business with _you_, by the way— and before I knew it, I'd interrupted them by asking her to the party."

Ron stared at him. "You didn't have to do that for _me_, mate—"

"Good thing I didn't, then," Harry chuckled. "I simply took Hermione's advice and finally asked somebody so all those mad girls would leave me alone…particularly Romilda Vane."

Turning her head, Hermione sent Harry a brief, pleased smile, nodding in agreement before bending over her homework again; it seemed she'd already been informed of his decision.

"Besides," Harry added, shrugging again, "I don't mind telling you I dread seeing what she'll wear tomorrow night, but Luna's all right— she doesn't giggle all the time, and at least I know she won't try to slip me a love potion. She said it'd be really nice to go to a party with a friend—"

At the mention of Hermione's name, however, Ron had gradually stopped paying attention. "Who are _you_ going with, then?" he asked abruptly, turning towards Hermione.

"What?" demanded Hermione, looking even more confused than Harry had. The world of Arithmancy was evidently just as hypnotic as Potions.

"The _party_?" Ron clarified testily. "Who are you going with? You fallen prey to McLaggen's questionable charms at last or what?"

Glaring at him, Hermione tilted her chin up in indignation. "No, I certainly have _not_ 'fallen prey' to anything, and in either case I don't know how it's any of _your_business who I'm going with, seeing as you haven't showed any interest in the 'pathetic' Slug Club since I asked you."

Ron bristled at her chilly tone. "Well, then I hope you've already sent Vicky an invitation— maybe he'll make it to the party so you won't have to bother with _me_, if I'm so much _trouble_," he muttered bitingly.

Hermione sighed, and he could swear her voice was actually trembling now. "Ron," she said thickly, frowning at him, "I kissed Viktor _two __years_ ago, and I haven't kissed him again since."

Ron scowled. "Right! Then what about the letters—"

"I haven't seen him in person since then, and it's a bit hard to 'snog' through a letter," Hermione said coldly, rising from her chair and starting to gather up her things. "I spent the summer after fourth year with you and Harry at Grimmauld Place, remember? And I _still _haven't been to Bulgaria— and you know _what_? It's _ridiculous_ that I have to stand here and actually _defend_ myself to you— you're not my parents!" Scoffing, she turned round and walked off.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw Harry bending over his homework, writing furiously, every line of his body conveying his discomfort; he was obviously wishing he hadn't been there to witness yet another argument.

Ron groaned. Well, he'd certainly done it _now_, hadn't he? Goodbye, bloody Slughorn's bloody Christmas party—

He almost jumped as she suddenly returned, leaning over the back of his chair and talking uncomfortably close to his ear. His skin tingled as her breath fanned his earlobe and the side of his neck; even if her voice was nothing like he'd imagined in a position such as this, no-nonsense and brisk rather than husky or seductive, he gulped loudly.

"I'm going to wait for you here in the common room at eight o'clock tomorrow night, but I'll only wait for ten minutes. _You_ decide whether you still want to go to the party with me or not, all right?"

Ron caught Harry gaping at Hermione as she flounced off to her dormitory; apparently, he was too shocked to even _pretend_ to ignore them anymore.

For a moment, Ron could only sit and stare at the fireplace. So she really _hadn't_ asked anybody else. "Bloody hell…!"

**To be continued.**

* * *

**Author's ****note: **Before the terrorist attacks in Norway, this story was nearly completely finished, which is why I'm publishing it so soon after my recent _Harry __Potter_ story, _Rabbit __Heart_ (which was in response to the attacks). This is a much more light-hearted affair.

What if Ron and Hermione had gone to Slughorn's Christmas party together after all? Yes, yes, it's been done. I hadn't found quite what I was looking for yet in any of those other stories, though, so I'm still going there.

**Edit****(02.11.2011): **Just noticed I still had a mention of Snape teaching Potions, even though this takes place in HBP and even though Sluggy features heavily in the story. D'oh!

**Edit****(03.08.2011):** For some reason, I had Luna referring to herself as a Hufflepuff. I have no idea why. I mean, I know she's not a Hufflepuff, I even had Hermione make that comment to Ron about trying to snog somebody from Hufflepuff (as opposed to Ravenclaw) for a bit of VARIATION, for crying out loud. Eh...typo, I guess. **Thanks ****for ****spotting ****it ****for ****me, ****motorized-sasquatch.****;)**

Some quasi-Ron/Luna for my main man, **Marvolo ****Cassius ****AKA ****Lon ****Wolfgood**. :D And no, Luna didn't do that because she's some kind of magical matchmaking plot device, but simply to satisfy her own curiosity.

**I'll ****just ****copy ****and ****paste ****what ****I ****wrote ****in ****the ****author's ****notes ****of ****one ****of ****my ****other ****HP ****fics, **_**All **__**For **__**Myself**_**: ****Feel ****free ****to ****britpick ****this ****fic ****as ****much ****as ****you ****like ****in ****the ****reviews.** Being that I am Norwegian, and have been taught British English in school/at university, but am constantly being exposed to American English in the mass media, my writing reflects this by being a jolly hybrid of the two. I've tried to avoid the most obvious American English expressions and such, but…

And there's **no ****beta ****reader**, either, so feel free to comment on any other kinds of mistakes.

PS: Every time I've read that line where Ron says "it's a celebration', I've inevitably heard Dave Chapelle's impersonation of Rick James in my head.


	2. Get Here in Time When Our Day Comes

**An Ostensible Invitation**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Summary: **In which a hurt Hermione confronts Ron, trying to find out why he's suddenly giving her the cold shoulder after she'd invited him to Slughorn's Christmas party and he'd seemed to accept. Just because I wondered why she didn't.

_Half-blood Prince_ what-if. Some dialogue in the story taken from book six out of necessity (and some slightly altered), but not, I believe, enough for it to be bothersome.

* * *

Harry had already gone downstairs to meet Luna, and for Ron, still standing in front of the mirror and critically examining himself, the loss of another person to keep him company and distract him in his misery made him feel like his stomach was rolling around in his body.

He'd showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed, and combed his hair, which meant he'd run out of excuses to dawdle. Even so, his feet refused to move, which was probably why Harry had eventually given up on waiting for him.

Ron suspected Harry had also wanted to avoid having to discuss whatever was going on between Ron and Hermione, or worse yet, being asked for advice about it. Harry might be a powerful, famous wizard and a talented Seeker, but when it came to these sorts of things, he was nearly as useless as Ron himself.

Ron groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He should've gone downstairs with Harry. With Harry and Luna there, he wouldn't have had to worry about making conversation. What was he supposed to say to her? How unfair was it that he suddenly had no idea what to say to this person he'd been talking to practically every day for the last five and a bit years?

Despite having invited him to the party, she'd hardly spoken to him earlier that day, not to mention her expressions and behaviour had been strangely neutral, so he had no clue as to how she felt (all right, so she'd left the common room in a strop the previous evening, but she'd _invited him to the party_, so why wasn't she speaking to him?). There seemed to be a yawning chasm between the moment she'd invited him and the moment he would be forced to go downstairs and meet her, with absolutely nothing bridging it, no smiles and no words (except perhaps 'Ron, please pass the toast') to indicate how he should feel about this evening or how he should behave.

"Shit," he said out loud, opening his eyes again to stare at his own reflection. His voice sounded scratchy, small and helpless in the empty room, only emphasizing the fact that he was completely on his own with this. Maybe he could feign some sort of injury (yeah, living up to the Gryffindor name indeed).

No, better just take his gangly old self downstairs and face the music.

_Have I__ always been this pale_, wondered Ron; and was that a developing spot on his chin? Not that anyone would notice, of course, considering the massive onslaught of freckles on his face. At least, he supposed, his hair was more manageable than Harry's, who'd deemed it hopeless after spending a mere minute on it with his comb. Now if only his hair was also a different colour than this embarrassingly bright shade of red…

_And if only_, he thought, panic tinkling in his heart like falling icicles as he noticed it was nearly fourteen minutes past eight, _if only I'd kept my eye on the time instead of on my stupid face!_

Hermione had promised him she'd leave for the party at ten past eight at the latest. What with their strained relationship as of late, he couldn't blame her for assuming he'd decided not to show up.

Almost tripping over a pair of Neville's shoes on his way out the door, which might've resulted in a couple of broken teeth as he'd have hit the flagstones in the hallway (and he wouldn't even have had to feign that injury), Ron righted himself as best he could and hurtled down the hall and down the stairs with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

When he'd reached the common room, his heart was threatening to leave his ribcage, his breath coming in shallow gasps. For a second, his vision seemed to almost blur in his disorientation, as he looked wildly around the large room for Hermione.

After what felt like an hour, but was most likely only about two seconds, he caught sight of her sitting in a chair by the window, looking at him. As she stood up, the delicate layers of her dark red, sleeveless dress fluttered about her, the colour of her cheeks brightening to match it.

Relief and elation rushed through him. He was late, yet she'd waited. Ron knew he was lucky, though, and that she might not give him the same leeway a second time. Sometimes, he reflected, feeling a wave of fondness for her, it was rather fortunate that she knew he could be a great prat about some things.

"Hermione, I'm sorry I'm late," he hurried to say, or rather pant, crossing the floor in three long strides. "Thanks so much for waiting," he added just as quickly, his hand hovering nervously by his face for a second before he forced himself not to fuss with his hair.

"That's all right," Hermione said lightly, her cheeks still glowing, "I did consider leaving, but Harry said he reckoned you'd be along, and I thought…perhaps…" she mumbled, surprising him by looking faintly embarrassed. Ron found himself wondering exactly how long she'd have been willing to wait for him, a shiver of nervous joy going down his back, making him feel like an idiot for even considering not going.

"Really, thanks for waiting," he repeated, aware that he might be overdoing it (and sounding like a tosser), but determined not to mind. Whether he was succeeding in his determination was another matter. He'd planned on arriving on time, calm and cool, and perhaps on even asking her about her behaviour, but since the silent, almost aloof Hermione from earlier that day appeared to have utterly vanished, so did the question from his mind.

For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. Ron had been so certain she'd take the lead (considering _she'd _invited _him_, and considering she was…well, _Hermione_) that he suddenly felt just a bit panicked.

"You look great!" he blurted out, at once cringing slightly. Not only could that have been handled with a bit more finesse, but he barely even sounded like himself. He knew he must also sound like he was merely overcompensating (again) for being tardy, but because he meant it (she did look good), he soldiered on: "You've got new dress robes, right? They look nice, must've cost— and, and I like your hair like that, it's— wow, I hadn't quite realized how long it'd got—"

Appearing somewhat overwhelmed and puzzled, Hermione patted her hair experimentally, which did look a bit longer than usual, because she seemed to have done something to sleek out her curls a little, but otherwise more or less the same. "Uhm, yes, I was packing for tomorrow and didn't quite have time to— I suppose I should've put it up…"

Ron wasn't sure what to think about that. Had she left her hair down because she didn't care what he thought (unlike international Quidditch star Krum, whom she obviously had to get dolled up for)? Had she worried that he might read too much into it if she changed her look too drastically? Or was it just not such a grand occasion after all, this party?

Or maybe Hermione was Hermione and really _had_ just got caught up with her packing and organizing. "No, it's fine the way it is," he assured her.

Her hand was subsequently removed from her hair, her shoulders descending. It seemed he'd managed to say the right thing. "Thank you," she replied, smiling carefully at him, "and I like your new dress robes…that blue tie looks smart on you."

Ron felt absurdly grateful that she didn't want to know how he'd been able to afford them.

"Far cry from fourth year, you mean?" he quipped, trying to grin; getting the lurking subject of the Yule Ball, the last formal occasion they might've attended together, out of the way.

"I hope so," she replied quietly, which pretty much said it all, he felt.

As they started towards Slughorn's study, Ron wished he could simply ask Hermione herself whether he was supposed to hold her arm or not. Even if there had still been any party-going couples left in the common room to watch and emulate, he still wouldn't have been sure what to do. This was _Hermione_, after all, and when it came to her, he was about as much use as a chocolate hammer.

Perhaps he'd pluck up the courage to do so on the way back. _If_ they actually ended up _leaving_ together as well as _going to_ the party, that was. Knowing the two of them, practically anything (good or bad, often bad) could happen between now and then.

* * *

The party location was…not how he'd expected, but considering Slughorn, really how he _should've_ expected it to be. It was larger than any other teacher's study he'd ever seen, so Ron naturally suspected the Potions professor of using an Enlargement charm to impress and accommodate his guests— either that, or Dumbledore had given him the largest office as part of his attempts at persuading Slughorn to come out of retirement.

Emerald, crimson and gold hangings covered the spacious room, reminding Ron of some of the fancier tents he'd seen at the World Cup. The party was bathed in a dreamlike, red light cast by an ornate, golden lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling; there were even real fairies fluttering about up there, like living specks of light. The mandolin music wafting up from a corner and the house-elves scurrying about, laden with platters like mules with saddlebags, completed the picture of heavy luxury, and especially when compared to the drafty, stone-floored corridor they'd just left, it was like being smacked in the face with a different and much more la-di-da dimension.

"Very posh," Ron deadpanned, already feeling out of place.

"It's a bit stuffy, but it's nice, yes," said Hermione in a somewhat strained tone, waving away some pipe smoke that was emanating from a group of elderly warlocks.

Slughorn chose this moment to descend upon them, giving the impression of a silk-encased glacier moving at high speed, or a well-to-do hippopotamus, ready to pounce. "Ah, Miss _Granger_!" he greeted loudly, and with great cheer. "I _knew_ you wouldn't fail me! I congratulate you on finally persuading our boy Harry to join us! Rather _modest_ fellow, isn't he? And naturally, I'm _delighted_ that you've decided to attend as well! Oh, who's your friend, Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiled politely. "Thank you, Professor. This is—"

"Ah, wait, don't tell me, it's Rupert Wallenby, isn't it?" Slughorn guessed (incorrectly, yet confidently), as if he was playing a party game. "Harry's best friend!"

"_Ron Weasley_," Ron gritted out, beyond caring if the old walrus would be offended or not.

Hermione looked uncomfortable, but hurried to defuse the situation. "Ronald's keeper for Gryffindor, Professor Slughorn," she interjected diplomatically.

"Oh? Ah, yes, I saw you in the opening match against Slytherin. Ver' good work, ver' good work, you were really on form that day," said Slughorn, nodding sagely. "Bad luck for my house, of course, but then we can't always win, I suppose."

"Thanks," Ron muttered, wondering if he should take offence at 'that day'; wondering if it was a nice way of saying he was rubbish most other days.

"Ronald's father works for the Ministry, Professor," Hermione went on, obviously _determined_ to impress Slughorn somehow. Ron had to admire her efforts, somewhat flattered even if she was clearly just trying to make him feel better, but mostly he just wished he could Disapparate.

"Really? Splendid, splendid!" Slughorn enthused. "May I ask what post?"

Ron ducked his head. "Uh, he's the head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects, Sir," Ron recited the long title in a mumble, scowling at his shoes. Mum had certainly mentioned it _more_ than enough times for him to know it by heart.

"Ronald's father was recently promoted by the new Minister for Magic, Professor," he heard Hermione adding helpfully. Her voice sounded slightly higher; there seemed to be a somewhat concerned, apprehensive edge to it now. Like she was afraid he'd say something daft, probably.

Ron treated his shoes to a scoff.

"Really? Splendid!" Slughorn repeated, his voice taking on a slightly preoccupied air. "Now if you'll excuse me, an old friend of mine just arrived— you know how it is, duties of the host, and so on—"

When Slughorn had left their company, Hermione rounded on Ron.

"I know this isn't exactly your element, Ron, but since you've accepted my invitation, and since you've been doing nothing but prattling on about this party lately, the least you could do when you're finally here is mind your manners and not act so…so _sulky_!" she admonished, putting her hands on her hips. "You were really _rude_ to Professor Slughorn just now!"

"Oh, come off it, Sluggy's so pompous he probably didn't even notice!" Ron retaliated at once, his expression twisting with angry humiliation. "I don't like standin' about and bragging about my 'connections', Hermione, it makes me feel like _Percy_! And I'd thank you to stop _constantly_ referring to me as 'Ronald'!"

Hermione treated him to a sardonic arching of her eyebrow. "Well, that's your _name_, isn't it?"

"You're making it sound all _pretentious_!" Ron accused hotly.

Hermione drew a deep breath. "Look, Ron, I don't care about _connections_, I just thought you'd feel better if he stopped getting your name wrong," she murmured, assuring and imploring him with her eyes. "Professor Slughorn's…odd like that, but he's not a bad person, really…it's just that he only seems to have room in his head for people who can help him climb the social ladder, so to speak."

His anger towards her faded with her plea of understanding, but the dull, itchy grudge against the Slug Club didn't, and neither did the usual insecurities that always seemed to be simmering beneath the surface of him somewhere. "Yeah, well, that's not me, is it, so stop pretending like it is."

He got an explosive sigh in response. "You know what? I'm going to go talk to somebody else for a while— perhaps then you'll have a chance to decide if you want to stop acting like Moaning Myrtle!" Hermione announced, sweeping away, her gossamer skirts billowing out behind her.

Glaring sullenly after her, Ron was glad when Harry showed up next, so he wouldn't have to stand there alone like a pathetic sod.

"Something wrong?" asked Harry, indicating the retreating Hermione.

Considering there were just too many available answers to that question, Ron decided to ignore it. "What d'you reckon, mate?"

"About what?" Harry replied, glancing curiously at him.

Ron inclined his head towards Hermione, across the floor, who was now chatting to Professor McGonagall. "Hermione asking me to the party."

Harry grimaced, looking down into his drink. It looked like he'd been right when he'd thought Harry had wanted to avoid being asked for advice about Hermione earlier; the problem was that Ron didn't really have anybody else to ask. "I reckon, Ron, that you'd do better asking Hermione about that instead," Harry replied, still with that awkward look on his face. "I'm afraid I'm just as rubbish at Legilimency as I am at Occlumency."

Ron frowned. "So she hasn't talked to you about it at all?"

"Hasn't mentioned anything, no," said Harry, shaking his head.

"How about you and Luna, then?" asked Ron, prodding Harry's side with his elbow.

Harry waved a hand, shrugging. "Oh, we're just going as friends, like I said."

"You _sure_?" Ron insisted, lowering his voice in confidentiality. "I mean, she gave _me_ quite a start, for one— didn't see that one coming _at all_—"

"No, she said she'd love to go as friends," explained Harry calmly, before adding, with another shake of his head: "Don't think she gets invited to a lot of parties, Luna."

Ron mirrored the head shaking, but for a different reason. "Luna's a great girl and all, but I can't say I'm surprised."

Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron, giving him a crooked grin. "Considering I used to have to hide under the stairs and pretend not to exist whenever the Dursleys had a dinner party, which was fairly often, I can't really judge her, though."

"Sorry, mate," Ron said sympathetically.

Harry's grin didn't fade. "No problem…the Dursleys threw lousy parties."

Ron stared at Harry as something caught up with him. "Wait, does that mean…everybody's just bringing _friends_? Is that the policy at the Slug Club? Am I just here as one of her mates, then? I mean, not that I think she meant— it's just— good to be clear— know her intentions—"

Harry cleared his throat, cutting through Ron's ramblings. "Don't think so, mate. Not unless there's been a recent redefinition of what 'friend' means, in which case I'm afraid I can't see you anymore," Harry joked, pointing surreptitiously at a corner, where Blaise Zabini and a Slytherin girl Ron didn't know were locked in a passionate embrace, thankfully half-obscured by some gauzy drapes. "I think a few people _have_ brought dates."

"Ah," squeaked Ron, his mind racing; immediately going places it had no business going. He'd only be fooling himself if he thought Hermione had something even remotely like that planned for them this evening, anyway.

"I better, uh…go keep Luna company," Harry said, gesturing at the unfortunate situation that seemed to be developing between an obliviously chatting Luna and a creepily staring, oddly vampire-like bloke in a corner of the room.

Ron produced some choked sound of agreement and moved jerkily towards the table of refreshments, lifting a trembling hand to grasp a bottle of Firewhiskey.

Just as he was about to pour himself a glass to steady his nerves, the cause of said nerves appeared at his elbow as if she'd Apparated there.

"You're a _prefect_, Ron!" she hissed with reproach, grasping his arm. "You need to set an example, you can't just—"

"It's a _party_, Hermione, and there are no ickle first years here who'll—" he began irritably, but abruptly reconsidered; perhaps having a go at the stronger stuff wasn't such a good idea. After all, he didn't have any experience with it, not to mention he might end up saying some things he'd regret later. Although he'd like to leave the party, having at last understood why Harry had been trying to avoid it all this time, he didn't want a row with Hermione to be the reason. Besides, if he actually made her _cry_ at a festive occasion _again_, she might refuse to come to Bill and Fleur's wedding. "You're right, sorry," he said matter-of-factly, putting down his drink and picking up a Butterbeer instead.

For a moment, she looked stunned; then a flustered smile lit up her entire face, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink colour. "Thank you, Ron."

"Don't mention it." Even though he cleared his throat, his voice still came out hoarsely.

Her hand came up to rest on his arm, the look in her eye sweet and confidential. "Ron, listen…" she began, leaning closer and all but whispering now, "I only thought…you've got every right to be here as _more _than just a guest! You've been _right there_ with me and Harry in every one of those dangerous situations— the mountain troll, the shrieking shack, the Ministry— not to mention you went into the Forbidden Forest despite your intense arachnophobia and— and so much more, and you're every bit as brave and clever as Harry and as talented as Ginny, and I just hoped…if Slughorn remembered you and liked you, he'd invite you to become a member of the club, because…" He felt her determined puff of breath just barely tickling his Adam's apple, caught her frowning in concern. "…because believe it or not, Ron, it hasn't been fun for me or Harry, knowing you feel…that you don't…look, I just don't see why you _shouldn't_ be a member, all right? And if you aren't going to be, I'm inclined to stop going, because I don't want another row about this silly club. There are far more important things to think about, and I'm getting sick of…of _this_."

"Come off it, Hermione…" he tilted his head back with a groan, feeling somewhat overwhelmed all of a sudden, both by her relentlessness and the close contact. She might not be aware of it, but her support, while flattering, came with a sense of pressure and performance anxiety that was simply too much for him. "…you know, between you and Harry constantly trying to cheer me up lately, I've never felt more miserable." Bending his back so his face was almost level with hers, he met her eyes; he was resolved to sound serious and neutral, but a little bitterness still found his way into his voice: "And I don't want you to stop going to parties on account of me. I don't need any pity."

"Ron!" Her fingers tightened a bit on his arm, the fabric of his new dress robes bunching up. "Did you even hear a _word _I said?"

"I heard plenty," he said darkly, putting his untouched Butterbeer back on the table.

Hermione let his arm slip from her grasp. "I've known you for _ages_, Ron. If anyone's got the right to and the basis for pointing out your good sides, it's me. The only one who knows you better has to be Harry, or your parents, or—" she interrupted herself when she noticed he seemed to be staring at the ceiling. "What?" she asked impatiently.

"Mistletoe," he mumbled.

She looked up.

Next, they didn't speak at _exactly_ the same time, but the words were the same: "You don't have to."

They both redirected their attention to the floor. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see her wringing her hands.

He opened his mouth to speak, to somehow repair whatever damage had been done by this dangerous moment—

As it turned out, Slughorn did it for him. "How are you two getting along?" he boomed, sounding much like the jolly Spirit of Christmas Present from that Muggle story Dad had told him once. Slughorn now had a large mince pie in one hand and a goblet of mead in the other, not to mention he'd managed to become noticeably inebriated in the short time since they'd last spoken to him. His large, hammy face was flushed bright red with festivity. "D'you need some more drinks? I could fetch a house-elf—"

Ron honestly didn't know whether to feel grateful or annoyed.

Hermione flashed a nervous smile. "No, that's all right, Professor."

"Do forgive me for asking, by the way, and do ignore an old man like me, if you please, but I'm curious…what exactly is the nature of your relationship?" Slughorn asked good-naturedly, smiling at them before taking a delicate sip from his gold-laced goblet, spilling a few drops of mead on his smoking jacket without noticing.

Ron was sure all the blood was draining out of his face. What was he supposed to _say_? And why did Slughorn want to _know_, anyway? Was he keen on finding out if he was establishing an important connection with a future celebrity couple or something?

"Ron and I are prefects together, Professor," Hermione piped up, however, never missing a beat, "and we've been friends since first year."

Slughorn raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Oh, really? Keeper _and_ prefect, are you? I shall have to keep an eye on you, shan't I, Weasley?" he teased, chuckling foolishly.

Ron gave him a wan smile in return. If he had to endure another helping of joviality, he was going to heave, even if the geezer _had_ got his name right in the end. When Slughorn spotted Harry, Luna and Trelawney by the punch bowl and excused himself, therefore, Ron felt too relieved to care about the fact that somebody was overlooking him for Harry again.

* * *

It was when Slughorn had left them alone and none of the other party guests seemed to take much notice of them that they began to talk together properly at last, chatting about the food, the room and the guests, particularly their teachers, in the easy sort of way only somebody who's shared a class for quite a while can do, laughing at Professor Flitwick's semi-inebriated singing and commenting on Snape's unsurprisingly glowering, antisocial party behaviour.

Ron was starting to relax, and finally had the time and the presence of mind to finally _look_ at Hermione, happily studying her as she answered his questions about the time she'd met Gwenog Jones. She'd even giggled at his impression of Snape being the life and soul of the party (performed carefully, and despite great risk of detection), which had helped his nerves in a way he doubted Firewhiskey could.

Whenever they went to Hogsmeade, Ron reflected, she usually took more care than usual about dressing and doing her hair, and sometimes she even applied some shiny sort of lip stuff, but apart from the Yule Ball, he really hadn't seen her in full make-up before. Her already dark brown eyelashes were now sooty, further enhancing her brown eyes, there was a dusting of something pearly shimmering on her eyelids, and she wore a shade of red lipstick that matched her dress.

Her neckline didn't plunge, like with a few of the other dresses here, but rather hinted enticingly at the gently heaving roundness beneath. The fact that he was a good head taller than her, or more, provided him with fascinating little glimpses of her every so often. He knew she'd hex him if he was caught, but it wasn't as if he was openly staring or not listening to what she was saying; he wasn't trying to be rude, after all, it was just his _height_…and if she got angry, he intended to apologize, but not before informing her that a teenage boy who didn't think about tits at least once a day would be an abnormality. Unless she cursed his mouth shut before he'd even been able to finish speaking, that was.

When he courteously leaned down to hand her a goblet of mead, his eyes inevitably raking across the swell of her breasts, lingering on the small valley of exposed, fair skin, therefore, she stupefied him when she _did_ catch him at it, but merely responded by accepting the drink and lowering her lashes, her mouth twitching with what seemed to be a suppressed, nervous smile, her cheeks and hairline colouring. It was clear she wasn't at ease with the idea of being ogled by him, yet she wasn't entirely displeased, either.

Ron's hand shook a bit as he drank his mead. "Hey, isn't that one of the Weird Sisters?" he hastened to ask, pointing discreetly at a long-haired, skinny, young man in a dragon skin jacket that resembled the ones Fred and George wore sometimes.

Hermione craned her neck to see past a tall, old wizard. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if it was."

"Merlin's beard, is there anyone Slughorn _doesn't_ know?" Ron said, half in complaint, half in awe.

"Bet he'd love to hear you say that," Hermione remarked with a small smile, before adding wistfully: "It really is a pity he didn't invite them to play, though. Dancing would be lovely, but I suppose it's just too crowded in here…"

Just as Ron started wondering, a sort of fear-joy bubbling through him, if she meant she wanted to dance with _him_ in particular, there was a commotion on the other side of the room.

"Professor Slughorn," Ron heard Filch calling in a loud sort of wheeze, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"

A flash of platinum-blonde hair told Ron, filling him instantly with exquisite schadenfreude, that the 'boy' in question was Malfoy. A glance at Hermione confirmed that she'd noticed this, too, and was just as intrigued. Absentmindedly, she put her half-empty goblet of mead down on the nearest table; he did the same. "All right, I wasn't invited!" Malfoy exclaimed angrily. "I was trying to gatecrash, happy?"

"No, I'm not!" said Filch, although the old codger sounded as if he was on cloud nine. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that night-time prowling is out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"

Ron and Hermione weren't the only ones who'd had their curiosity piqued by the uninvited guest and the caretaker, however, and as the other guests gradually flocked towards the scene, blocking the way, it became harder to follow the situation. Ron managed to catch a glimpse of Harry and Luna, standing next to Slughorn, but couldn't quite make out Slughorn's response to the gatecrashing, although unfortunately it sounded forgiving.

Pushing at his arm, Hermione tried to lead them both closer, but it was a slow trek, as people bumped into their shoulders or got in their way, queuing up to see what was going on. Ron tried his best to shield Hermione from the forest of elbows.

Eventually, Ron saw Snape, his long, black cloak flapping behind him, leading a surly, pale-faced Malfoy past them. By the time he and Hermione had made their way through the clump of gathered on-lookers, even though it only took a minute or so, Harry was no longer there, and neither was Slughorn.

"Oi, Luna, where's Harry?" called Ron as they reached Luna, who was standing next to Professor Trelawney.

"Oh, hi, Ronald— hi, Hermione. Harry said he was going to the loo, he'll probably be back soon," Luna informed them, adding dreamily: "You'll want to try this cake, it's wonderful!"

Staring down at the pudding table he'd impossibly managed to miss so far, Ron momentarily forgot about Harry. "Isn't that the same chocolate gateaux they served when Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were visiting?" he asked, unable to keep the abrupt gastronomic lust from entering his voice and expression. It wasn't as if Hermione wasn't accustomed to witnessing his enthusiasm for all things culinary, anyway; in fact, he caught her hiding a giggle behind her hand at his shameless glee. So she _did_ find it charming after all, did she?

"Cake!" scoffed Trelawney, drunkenly gesturing with her goblet. "I sushpect Dobbin's in his _shtable_, eating _hay_ right now! Perhaps my job's being th-threatened by a domesticated amin— animal, but at _leasht_ they know who to invite to parties and who, or should I say _what_, not to, hmm?"

Ron made it easy for himself by putting this rant in the 'barmy' category, therefore deeming it safe to ignore. He concentrated instead on the cake, leaving Luna to derail Trelawney's anger by picking up a conversation about a conspiracy theory having to do with dental hygiene and Aurors. Ron concluded not to comment on this, either, but while Trelawney's babblings just made him wish somebody would recommend her a short holiday at St. Mungo's, Luna's lunacy made him grin.

His mouth blissfully stuffed with cake, he turned back to Hermione, satisfied.

Then he saw what she was eating. "Come _on_, Hermione, don't tell me that out of every delicious thing on this table, _that's_ what you're havin'!" This muffled protest was said with an air of scandal, as well as with a short spray of crumbs.

"Don't be a pig, Ron," said Hermione, daintily popping another grape in her mouth.

"But this cake's bloody _mouth-watering_!" he insisted, making sure to favour her with a look that told her she was barking. Didn't care much for Quidditch, said no to chocolate cake…didn't she know it was important to appreciate the finer things in life?

"I can _see_ that," she remarked dryly. "Anyway, dinner wasn't that long ago. I'm not that hungry."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Everyone _knows_ not to eat too much at tea if they're going to a _Christmas_ _party_— never mind, at least try some of mine, then, if you don't want a whole slice—" he offered, already steering a fluffy, dark pastry cloud, lovingly pinched between his fingers, towards her objecting mouth.

"No, _really_, Ron, I don't—" Hermione began, jerking her head to the side, tense; she immediately fell silent when he pressed his other hand gingerly against her jaw to coax her face towards the cake. Looking faintly flabbergasted, she opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her the sugary morsel.

Chewing, she let out a diffident sort of giggle, trying to cover her mouth with her hand, as if eating was something obscene. He responded by gently pushing her hand away and sneaking some more cake into her mouth, studying her now noticeably pinker cheeks.

"_Good_, right?" he prodded hopefully, nodding in encouragement.

"Mmmpph," she grunted, which appeared to mean yes; he grinned. Next, she brought him into a state of complete shock as she, seemingly unaware of what she was even doing, took two of his fingers into her mouth and cleaned them off with her lips and tongue.

Sharp, rolling pleasure spread from his fingers and up to his scalp, before shooting all the way down into his toes. He had to force himself not to wobble on his feet.

His nostrils flared, his breath seeming to get stuck in his throat as if he was choking on it, his stomach fluttering with the warm wetness of her mouth on his skin.

"Oh, you're feeding her cake," he heard Luna saying in an airy, yet intrigued tone, but there was a roaring in his ears that made her sound far away. "I've heard they feed each other cake at Muggle weddings, is that true? Should _I_ be feeding somebody cake?"

Ron felt Hermione exhaling softly before she drew herself back, releasing his fingers.

"You know what they don't do at _Muggle_ schools?" interjected Trelawney loudly. "Hire _horses_ as teachers!"

The short, but tense earlier moment under the mistletoe was forcing itself to the forefront of Ron's mind now, from where it had been lurking ominously in the back. His fingers were twitching slightly. Hermione's eyes travelled up to meet his. She was licking her lips self-consciously.

Ducking her head, she then handed him a napkin, presumably to clean his fingers with— Merlin, he hoped he didn't have cake all over his face like a child— and he tried desperately, again, to think of how to break the tension, to tell her she didn't need to feel embarrassed, that she hadn't done anything wrong, bloody hell, not anything even _remotely_ wrong—

"Hello, Granger." It was Cormac McLaggen, materializing out of the throng to loom over Hermione, smirking. Right. That was the thing about parties. There was always somebody available to interrupt you. But couldn't it have been _anybody_ except _him_? Even Trelawney raving about centaurs would've been better than _him_, except she seemed to have wandered off now; possibly in search of more sherry, of which she'd been reeking.

"Hello, Cormac," Hermione greeted, in a rather frosty manner that gratified Ron immensely.

McLaggen didn't seem to notice her disinterest, however. "How did you get invited to this party, Weasley? Your famous friend Potter help you again or what, hmm?"

"Not still harping on about the Quidditch tryouts, are you, Cormac?" Hermione drawled, sounding impressively disdainful. She deserved a medal for that one, Ron decided. "I wasn't aware you were such a sore loser."

Cormac kept his mouth shut for the moment, his lips pursed, but Ron noticed his jaw muscles jumping as he gritted his teeth; he was clearly furious. "Oh, I _see_, Granger," he said coolly, "so it's _you_ who've pitied the Weasley boy this time. Very noble of you, but you don't have to hang around him all _night_, you know," he purred, moving forward with what looked to be the intention of putting his arm around her.

Her delicate eyebrows knitting with disgust, Hermione simply took a step back. Cormac paused, frowning at her in perplexity. Apparently, he hadn't expected this.

McLaggen was a slimy git, yes, and there was no way Ron would let him get his greasy paws on Hermione, but that wasn't the only reason Ron found himself backing up a further couple of steps, surreptitiously attempting to steer Hermione with him by the crook of her arm. McLaggen was also, apart from being a complete wanker, even taller than Ron himself and nearly twice as broad, as well as possessing a handsome face and sandy blonde, wavy hair that appeared to allow him to get away with more of his terrible behaviour towards girls that he should, which was none. Ron did not want to stand next to him in Hermione's presence and have his awkward, lanky frame, freckled chaos of a face and clown-like, orange hair compared to this smug, good-looking bastard, no matter how blessedly sensible Hermione was about McLaggen.

"Really, Granger, how about you ditch the ginger and we go find ourselves a private corner, eh?" Cormac suggested smarmily, still not giving up. "I'll let you lick my treacle tart," he offered, picking up a piece of the pastry from the table they were standing at and giving the dollop of clotted cream a slow, seductive lick; an action that Ron knew he himself wouldn't have been able to replicate without merely looking ridiculous.

Ron's face went an unflattering maroon at the extremely inappropriate insinuations, his insides seeming to boil, his fists clenching. That bastard couldn't speak to Hermione like that, never, never, and especially not in front of him—

"Ron," Hermione announced, a bit shrilly, "we're _leaving_! Bye, Luna, see you!"

"Goodbye, Hermione," sing-songed Luna, "you can tell me about the cake later."

He was distracted from the urge to punch McLaggen as, to his great surprise and exultation, Hermione looped her arm through his and tugged gently, so his legs automatically began to follow her sweeping exit out the door. Which was just as well, Ron supposed, seeing as McLaggen would've probably flattened him.

As they left, Ron thought he could hear Luna speaking to McLaggen in her unmistakable breathy, detached sort of voice, making what Ron considered a very accurate observation: "That was rather silly of you, wasn't it?"

* * *

**Author's note:** To be concluded.

**About as much use as a chocolate hammer:** I think this expression belongs to Terry Pratchett, although I've seen very similar expressions other places.

**Edit (07.08.2011):** I'd accidentally written the spirit of Christmas past instead of the Spirit of Christmas Present. Thanks for pointing that out for me, Liselle129. :)

Hermione's hair was left down for the party both in the book and in the film, so I just kept it like that.

Is it just me, or do cakes seem to pop up a lot in my stories? Eh, serves me right for writing so many frickin' Christmas fics, for one thing, I guess.


	3. An Avalanche of Faces You Know

**An Ostensible Invitation**

Ninnik Nishukan

* * *

**Summary: **In which a hurt Hermione confronts Ron, trying to find out why he's suddenly giving her the cold shoulder after she'd invited him to Slughorn's Christmas party and he'd seemed to accept. Just because I wondered why she didn't.

_Half-blood Prince_ what-if. Some dialogue in the story taken from book six out of necessity (and some slightly altered), but not, I believe, enough for it to be bothersome.

* * *

"Ugh, that McLaggen!" Hermione bristled as they walked down the corridor from Slughorn's office at a vigorous pace, her still leading him by the arm. "What a _vile_— _ugh_!" She slowed down, then, walking _with_ him rather than almost dragging him in her eagerness to escape McLaggen. "Sorry I just pulled you out of there, but I could tell you were about to hit him!"

"He deserved it," Ron insisted, scowling, "the things that bastard _said_ to you…!"

Hermione cast him an odd glance, sort of flattered, amused and exacerbated all at once. "I won't lie, I'm not sure I would have minded, but I thought— well, what with all the teachers there, it'd only serve to get you in trouble, and he'd just love _that_— not to mention we're prefects and shouldn't be getting involved in fights— but thanks for the thought, anyway."

Her unexpected gratitude towards his protective intentions made his face heat up, his heart flipping pleasantly. "If you hate him so much, then why do you keep going to Sluggy's meetings, anyway?" asked Ron, trying his best to clean off his sticky fingers with the napkin without having to release Hermione's arm; he suspected he wouldn't have the nerve to take it again if he did, and he couldn't just _assume_ that _she_ would.

Hermione glanced at him with a slight frown. "Ron, it's not as if he's the only one in the club. That's like saying I shouldn't go to Hogwarts because _Malfoy_ goes here. The Slug Club _can_ be sort of fun," she admitted then, shrugging. "The food is good, and we meet a lot of interesting people."

"Bet you love feeling so special," Ron muttered, roughly stuffing the napkin into his pocket and looking away, but immediately changing his mind and looking back to see her reaction. Was that the sort of thing she wanted? Because he couldn't provide her with that.

Hermione shot him a guilty look. "Ron, I'm really sorry I tried to…to _promote_ you to Professor Slughorn. I think I've completely misunderstood things. I thought…I thought you actually _wanted_ to be in the club, you see," she said in a small voice, "or maybe I wanted you to want to be there, I don't know. Merlin, I must've sounded _so_— and I kept calling you Ronald! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," she sighed. "I just didn't know what to say. It was stupid."

His stomach seemed to squirm as he listened to her; being reminded of their conversations with Slughorn brought forth a cocktail of shame, guilt and agitation. "Yeah, well…I probably shouldn't have acted like I did, either, all rude. I _did _agree to go to the party, and maybe I _did_ want to be in the club…or at least I might've, before I got to see what it was actually like."

She shook her head. "Perhaps, but I'm the one who was putting you under pressure and didn't even realize I was doing it."

Ron gave a weak laugh. "Well, blimey, if I can't even handle old Sluggy, how am I supposed to handle the pressure of fighting You-Know-Who?"

Hermione laughed as well, sounding like she'd needed it. He liked making her laugh. "See? Like I said earlier, there are far more important things than the stupid Slug Club! Not only do we have to go up against the most powerful dark wizard of our time, but we have our N.E.W.T.s to think of as well! Who has _time_ to sit around eating crystallized pineapple and listening to people bragging about their influential relatives?"

He shot her a sideways, sceptical glance. "Right, so tell me again…why haven't you quit the club yet?"

She coloured. "All right, I'll admit I _was_ flattered by being picked for The Slug Club, especially since Harry's really been outdoing me in Potions…but it's not just that, it's also the fact that…well, we don't have the D.A. this year, do we? I just really enjoyed being…you know, _part_ of something," she confessed, looking a bit self-conscious. "You and Harry still have Quidditch, while I…didn't it ever occur to you that I don't have anything like that?"

"Oh," said Ron, to whom it hadn't. He'd simply assumed she ran off to the library whenever he and Harry went to Quidditch practice. It hadn't crossed his mind that she might've been bored or lonely sometimes.

"It's also one of the few things I can tell my parents about," she explained, brushing a lock of curly hair out of her face with one hand as they walked, her other arm still looped through his. "The magical world doesn't make much sense to them, but they understand things like grades and clubs and…well, it's like when I was chosen as a prefect. They understand that."

"Can't imagine they went as mental as Mum, though," he snorted. "They probably _expected_ you to get the badge."

"Honestly, Ron," she said matter-of-factly, squeezing his arm, "it was _obvious_ your mother expected you to be made prefect as well."

Ron shook his head, trying not to let her reassuring gesture fluster him. "If she did, it was only because Bill and Charlie and _Percy_ already—"

Hermione let go of his arm. "Are we _really_ going to start this sort of discussion up again?" she said flatly, rolling her eyes. "Now, right at the end of the evening? Because I don't know about you, but I've enjoyed myself, and I _don't_ fancy having another row right now."

"You've _enjoyed_ yourself?" asked Ron, all traces of complaint suddenly dropping from his tone, his eyes widening a little.

Glancing at him as she kept walking, Hermione bit her lip. "Well…yes, haven't you?"

_I have __**now**_, he thought, but couldn't bring himself to utter it out loud. Besides, _some_ bits of the party _had_ been very nice. "Hermione?" he asked instead, his voice turning low and serious.

She stopped and turned to him, noticing he'd already halted. "Yes?"

"Why'd you invite me to the party?" he went on bravely, nearly not even believing he was asking her this significant question.

She hesitated, a frown flitting across her brow. "What do you mean?"

He seemed to lose some of his momentum, then, turning his attention to a tiny chocolate stain on his robes. "I mean, um…you told Slughorn we were friends…"

"Oh." He saw her feet shuffling a bit, couldn't quite decipher her tone. "Well…to be honest, it was none of Slughorn's _business_, was it?"

Ron perked up; that almost sounded like they had a _secret _together. "Wouldn't you rather have gone with…?" he nevertheless felt compelled to ask, rubbing absentmindedly at the chocolate with his fingers; he should be applying a 'Scourgify', he supposed, but this provided him with a decent distraction.

She released an exasperated little puff of breath. "No."

He exhaled, surprised at her certainty, her finality. "What…what does that mean?"

Her brief annoyance fled as quickly as it had arrived; for a second, she almost looked scared. "It means…it means that this is…out of the ordinary."

They were being so careful it felt like they were back in first year, trying desperately not to wake up the slumbering, vicious Fluffy. It seemed it was forbidden to say anything in an uncomplicated and direct manner, because then it would all be over. "You mean…like, different from going to a Quidditch match to watch Harry together?"

Anyone listening in on this floundering parody of a conversation would definitely think they were mental, Ron thought. Hermione must've been thinking the same, because next she pulled out her wand, took a quick look from left to right, then left again, as if she was going to cross the street; then she was whispering 'Muffliato', before replacing her wand, sticking it back into the gauzy sash around her waist and out of sight.

"Yes…" she answered weakly, shaking her head a bit as she added: "…and I wouldn't…I wouldn't bring Harry to this party."

Ron was staring at her now, flabbergasted. She'd just used one of the Half-blood Prince's spells, even though it always annoyed her when Harry did. So this was well and truly a _private_ conversation, then. "You wouldn't have to, he's already in the club," he said, his calm tone belying his frantically thumping heart. He was playing thick now, he supposed, but he couldn't help himself. This was starting to get bloody _terrifying_.

She made a small noise of frustration. "I wouldn't bring Harry to a _ball_, either."

Ears turning red, he opened his mouth to speak, but apparently he was predictable. "Please don't mention Krum," she said hastily, and he couldn't help but think she'd refrained from calling him 'Viktor' on purpose, "Krum has nothing to do with this."

He found himself leaning forward with acute curiosity. "Hermione…?"

"There's a _reason_ I asked you," she said tightly, her lips pursing for a second. "If you still don't know why, I'm…I can't tell you."

Abruptly, he experienced a sting of shame, feeling like he was some big child she was trying desperately to handle, to keep it from throwing a fit. It was ridiculous that he should need to be treated with special care, wasn't it?

He swallowed; or perhaps she didn't think he was useless, but was simply just as afraid as him, afraid that she'd misunderstood, that he didn't want her.

_Want her_, his mind repeated mercilessly, and another blast of fear flooded him.

"Ron?" she asked timidly. "Do you…do you like _blonde_ girls?"

This abrupt change of tone and subject totally threw him. "What?"

"I mean," she began, her voice rising in pitch a bit, the way it often did when she was upset, "_Fleur _always seems to distract you to the point where you look like you're _daydreaming_ about her, and you're always staring at Madam Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks, and I've noticed Lavender's been paying you more attention this year, and then there was Luna, and you must've done _something_ to encourage Lavender and Luna, whether it was conscious or not, and I don't know, maybe that's what you _really_ want— and I mean, I'm not— I'm not really very— " she was tugging slightly at her hair with one hand now, a wretched expression stealing across her reddening face, which she then waved her free hand at, as if to sum up everything she didn't like about it. Then, to his great dismay, her hand descended to make a curvy sort of gesture in the air in front of her chest for a second, as if to indicate something was lacking there as well.

It had now begun to dawn on him that perhaps it was _worse_, perhaps she wasn't only afraid of a mere misunderstanding, of crossing the all-important friendship line, but perhaps another reason for these odd questions was because she was _actually_ trying to suss out if there was something _wrong_ with _her_. If _that _was why he was stalling, avoiding, being awkward, playing dumb, being a total—

It appeared that it hadn't necessarily been Luna, specifically, who'd made her jealous. It'd been some general sense of insecurity, a feeling that what he wanted was the opposite of her, which was mad. Was this why she'd been so quiet and withdrawn during the day of the party, before they'd met in the evening?

Somehow, it had never occurred to him, not _really_, that she could be anything but confident and in charge, or that he could be the idiot responsible for a decline in said confidence, that he could honestly hurt her ego, even in small ways— had never occurred to him that she was _honestly_ concerned about her looks, because she wasn't a normal girl, she was Hermione Granger, who was supposed to be far too intelligent to be as silly as other teenage girls, or even as him— had never occurred to him that he might not be the only one wondering not only _if_ they were wanted, but why they even _should_ be wanted in the first place—

"Ron?" she prompted, sounding breathless now. Expectant. It _did_ things to him. Pushed him forwards onto whichever path that lay ahead whether he wanted to or not; or perhaps it signalled to him that his passage might be safer than he'd thought. Either way, he wasn't going to waste their time discussing other girls and his imaginary feelings for them (of course he'd noticed other girls, but that was only because he wasn't blind or dead, it didn't mean what _she_ thought it might mean), not when they obviously needed to get straight to the crux of the matter.

"Hermione…I _know_ why you asked me," he admitted, "I just didn't…know _why_…you know?"

He was acutely aware that he sounded like a complete and utter tosser, but miraculously, she seemed to possess whatever code necessary to decipher his babblings, because she actually smiled at him.

"I s'pose I didn't know why you'd ask _me_ of all people, when you seemed to have your pick," he mumbled, still discomfited with the vulnerable situation he'd put himself in, yet emboldened by her response. Sure, sometimes her attention had made him preen, sometimes he'd even believed he had a chance with her, but it never took much for him to hurtle back into the constant, dull background hum of self-doubt, like a small child stumbling and tumbling head first into a river— which, incidentally, he'd done once near Ottery St. Catchpole at age five, so he knew what he was talking about.

"Ron," she sighed, her eyes suddenly bright, his name sounding oddly melodious and tender. He felt as if she'd never stop inventing new ways in which to say it. "Why on Earth wouldn't I?"

"Hermione," he heard himself beckoning softly as if from a distance, thunder clapping in his head as he realized she was actually reaching out for his hand. The dizzy anticipation barely had time to build, however, before she snatched her hand back, grabbed her wand and performed a hurriedly whispered "Finite incantatem!".

Disorientated, Ron spun around to find out what she'd seen, suddenly almost as breathless as Harry, who was running down the corridor towards them. "Ron! Hermione! I've got to tell you…!"

Frowning, Harry came to a halt, looking from one alarmed, scarlet face to the other. "What's the matter? Has something happened?"

Hermione cleared her throat a little too loudly. "Er, no— nothing, don't worry, Harry, you just startled us, that's all— what's going on? What did you want to tell us?"

At this question, Harry's excitement seemed to return full blast. "You caught Malfoy claiming to be 'gate crashing' the party, right? Well, I just _knew_ something else was really going on, so I decided to follow him!"

As Harry began to tell them of his discoveries, Ron's eyes flickered, for a moment meeting Hermione's, who looked just as uncomfortable as he was. They both knew, it seemed, that odds were they wouldn't be able to talk properly before leaving for the holidays.

Well, nothing for it. At least now he'd have some time to determine what to do, he supposed.

Sighing inwardly, Ron tried to forget the matter for the time being in order to concentrate on Harry, whose story did sound potentially important. Judging by Hermione's suddenly contemplative and resolved expression, she was already starting to analyze the new information in her head.

* * *

Next morning, the usual farewell before the holidays started seemed to be over in two seconds.

There was a bright, rushed 'Have a happy Christmas, Ron' spoken at his left ear, and then there was a buzzing in his head, leaving his mind oddly blank as she stood on tip-toe and embraced him, placing a fleeting kiss on his cheek.

Despite how dazed he felt, he still couldn't help but notice that while she also hugged Harry, she left out the kiss. That _had_ to be important, he decided.

When they opened their presents Christmas Day, however, he had no idea how to interpret Hermione's present for him. It wasn't the same as Harry's, as it'd been a few times in the past, so at least she'd differentiated between them, but at the same time, he wasn't sure his gift was something you'd give to someone you were…somebody who was allegedly more than a friend.

When he asked, Harry told him he'd given Hermione a book. No surprises there.

During Christmas lunch, Ron's stomach churned as he pondered the quality and reception of his already-sent present for Hermione. Now that he'd seen his own, he was once again revising the choice he'd made.

He'd given her what his Mum (in an atypically quiet, understanding, non-insistent voice that had kept him from regretting he'd asked for her help) had reassured him was a rather discreet necklace that Hermione could wear beneath her school uniform. It was thin, silver, and included a tiny, delicate sugar quill pendant. It hadn't obliterated his allowance, either, although it hadn't been exactly cheap. He'd been unsure if it was a wise purchase, but in the end he'd sent it, reminding himself he'd already bought her a bottle of perfume the year before, and surely this couldn't be any more inappropriate or unusual (yet at the same time, he wanted her to understand it _was _unusual) than that?

Hermione had given him two books. While thankfully neither had been a homework planner this time, but a book about Muggle sweets from around the world and one about the history of Wizard's chess, they were still books, and therefore not really anything out of the ordinary for Hermione…which made her gift impossible to interpret.

The best he could do, he concluded, was to take the two books as a sign that she hadn't been able to decide what to get him, as opposed to Harry, who'd received a single, big Quidditch book. This made him feel marginally better, and he was able to relax and enjoy his holidays with his family and Harry (even if the twins teased him relentlessly about Luna Lovegood the first couple of days; knowing them, it wasn't a given that they'd obtained this information from Ginny, so he kept the Christmas peace, such as it was, by refraining from yelling at his sister).

It was comforting, fun and easy to spend some time with his best friend and only talk about uncomplicated things like Quidditch, food, Chess, school, their families, the Ministry and Voldemort (hah!) as opposed to the impossible topic of girls.

* * *

Not for the first time, Ron reminded himself never to buy any magical portraits for when (or if) he managed to get himself his own house. He'd already had enough attitude from the ones at Hogwarts, St. Mungo's and especially Grimmauld Place to last him a lifetime.

Currently, it was the Fat Lady that was giving him trouble by refusing to accept the password, which had suddenly (and unreasonably) become obsolete over the holidays.

"There is a new password," said the portrait irritably, "and please don't shout."

Ron exchanged a disbelieving look with Harry and Ginny before gawking at the magical portrait, affronted. "But we've been away, how are we supposed to—?"

"Harry, Ginny…Ron!" Hermione called, hurrying over to them; she was wearing a cloak, hat and gloves and her face was pink, evidently from the cold weather. "I got back a couple of hours ago. I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck— I mean, Witherwings. Did you have a good Christmas?"

"Yeah," said Ron, beaming anxiously at her. "It was pretty eventful, actually, wish you'd been there."

Turning even pinker in the face, Hermione cleared her throat delicately. "By the way, they changed the password to 'abstinence'."

"Precisely," groaned the Fat Lady, rubbing her forehead and swinging forward to reveal the portrait hole.

"What's up with her?" asked Harry.

"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of the drunk monks down by the charms corridor. Anyway…" she added, pulling a scroll of parchment out of her pocket and handing it to Harry.

"Great," said Harry, as he unrolled the scroll; Ron snuck a peek over his shoulder to discover that Dumbledore had scheduled another lesson with Harry the following night, "I've got loads to tell him— and you. Let's go inside and sit down."

Hermione shuffled her feet, not quite meeting Harry's eye. "Um, to be honest, I was hoping to…to have a word with Ron first, if you don't mind."

Ron felt something leap and squirm inside him; exhilaration, curiosity, stone cold fear and uncertainty tangling up together until they were one big, undistinguishable mess. He hadn't thought she'd want to talk _this_ soon. He'd also hoped he'd be able to take the initiative for the discussion; both so he'd feel more prepared and because he'd wanted a chance to show her he wasn't _completely_ gormless when it came to these things.

To Harry's credit, he merely nodded, the only sign of his surprise a slightly raised eyebrow. As for Ginny, however, Ron felt her keen eyes on his face, and just knew she was trying not to laugh.

"Uh, don't you want to go inside at all, then?" Ron heard himself murmur as Harry and Ginny began to climb through the portrait hole, and Hermione remained standing, quiet. Immediately, he went slightly red; he sounded like some shy little schoolboy! Thank goodness, at least, that the days of his voice breaking with vicious unpredictability were finally gone.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like a bit more privacy than just sitting on the opposite side of the common room," said Hermione, pulling her hat off and combing her fingers through her wild, ruffled hair in an uneasy sort of manner. "Besides, I'm not sure I'd have the heart to wake her."

Glancing to the side, Ron realized the portrait hole had closed again. The Fat Lady was now dozing off in her picture frame.

"A-all right," Ron agreed, swallowing. "Where'd you want to go?"

"I don't know, let's just…walk around a bit, okay?" she proposed resolutely. "I know you just came back, but I thought…on the whole, we'd better take this opportunity to get this out of the way first, before term starts."

Ron's heart sank as he took in her suddenly business-like manner. _Out of the __**way**__?_

She was changing her mind. She'd had the entire holidays to come to her senses, and now she was changing her mind. No, she— was she?

"How about you, did _you_ have a good Christmas, Hermione?" he blurted out, trying to distract himself from his own nerves, or possibly delay the other subject.

Hermione blinked at his outburst, before taking off down the hall, signalling for him to follow her. "Oh, you know, it was all right…probably not as action-packed as yours, though. My family's not very big," she said somewhat apologetically, shrugging. "Oh, that reminds me," she went on, brightening, "you said something about Christmas being…eventful? What did you mean?"

Relieved that he was getting a soft, chatty start to what seemed like a big, important conversation, Ron started telling her about the unusual visitors they'd had at the Burrow.

"Oh, that's _terrible_, Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, appalled. "How could Percy do that to your _parents_? Pretending to miss them just so the Minister could— and Rufus Scrimgeour, trying to weasel himself into Harry's good graces like that, trying to put all sort of ideas into his head— symbol of hope— stand alongside the Ministry— to make it seem as if he approves— and after what they've done, particularly _Umbridge_, they expect— and poor Stan Shunpike— Harry as the Ministry's mascot! Hah!" she spat contemptuously, seething over the deeply insulting, almost tragicomic punch line of the story.

Ron grinned at Hermione's disjointed rant. He loved having a captive audience, which was why whenever something interesting happened to him, he made sure to tell it to as many people as possible and as many times as he could, but engaging Hermione had always been the most coveted outcome; he loved seeing her get this worked up over things that provoked her and things she cared about. It helped a little, distracting him further from the impending Talk. "Yeah, I doubt Scrimgeour'll pop round our house for any more 'social visits'," he agreed, with satisfaction. "Harry doesn't like to brag, of course, but I could tell he was pleased about getting to put the Ministry in its place."

"I should bloody well think so!" Hermione huffed, blushing as Ron barked a delighted, scandalized laugh at her uncharacteristically colourful language.

"Blimey, Hermione, you're more offended than _Harry_ was!"

"Well, I don't…I just don't like corruption, all right?" she sputtered lamely, ducking her head and glaring up at him. "I mean, who _does_?"

Ron grinned hugely, undeterred as an idea came to him. "Hey, you should start another organisation— Union for the Obliteration of Bureaucratic Bastards! Or the Corrupt Wankers Resistance Committee!" Chuckling obnoxiously, he knew he was getting carried away, but couldn't help himself. "Of course, they don't spell anything amusing, like _spew_, but— oh, wait, how about P.R.A.T? People for the Removal of Administrative Tossers?"

"Oh, stop it, Ron!" Hermione scolded, smacking his arm, but she was trying hard not to laugh. "Honestly, you're such a…a _boy_!"

Ron smirked, feeling self-satisfied for once.

Hermione gave a heavy sigh that was clearly designed to prevent any further temptations of mirth. "By the way…thank you for the necklace," she said softly, then.

Ron's own amusement died with the sincere subject change. "Oh, um…you're welcome. I had Mum help me pick it out," he explained, then immediately cringed, feeling daft. _Mum _helped? What was he, _nine_? She didn't need to know _that_!

To his surprise, however, this seemed to please her. "_Really_? That was rather thoughtful of you, Ron."

He couldn't help himself; his skinny chest seemed to inflate, his long back straightening. _Thoughtful_, was he? That sounded pretty mature, didn't it? "Cheers, no problem," he replied, in what he hoped was a suitably casual manner, considering his heart seemed to be flopping around in his chest as he wondered if she was indeed wearing the necklace right at that very moment. "Thank you for the…uh, books, too. I really liked them," he remembered to say, then, which was true. He'd already devoured (no pun intended) the book about Muggle sweets, and had just started on the other one when the holidays had ended.

"Oh, good. I wasn't sure which one to get, so I just thought…why not both?" Hermione gave him a bashful shrug and a zippy smile; Ron answered it, happy he'd been right. Next, Hermione seemed to hesitate a bit before asking: "Did you know your Mum actually sent me a Weasley Christmas jumper for the first time?"

Ron blinked, his spine going stiff. What did _that_ mean, all of a sudden? Oh, no, Ginny hadn't _told_ Mum anything, had she? Gah, he'd turn Ginny into a— or possibly, in her passive-aggressive disapproval of Fleur, maybe Mum had tried to make certain really _everybody_ got a jumper, _except _her daughter-in-law-to-be? It _could_ be, although it seemed a bit mental, even for Mum. Why had she, though?

Ron glanced nervously at Hermione. "Er, no, I didn't…but that's nice of her."

Hermione favoured him with a shy smile as she started peeling off her gloves and putting them in her pocket. "Yes, wasn't it? I sent her a letter to thank her."

_Another thing I didn't know_, thought Ron, feeling a bit befuddled, and wondering again what else he was going to hear tonight that was news to him.

Ron decided to just take the plunge. "Yeah, but…uh, what was it you really wanted to talk to me about, Hermione?"

Hermione bit her lip, not quite meeting his eyes as she paused outside a classroom door, reaching out to open it. "I don't know, I just felt like…we were interrupted, after the party. Like we should've had the chance to talk properly then."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, but proceeded with caution, both further into the conversation and into the classroom with her, "but what exactly did you want to…?"

"We went on a date," Hermione said simply, being nearly noiseless in closing the door behind them once he was inside.

"Ah." His eyebrows rose as he finally heard the word spoken aloud. Stopping in the middle of the floor, he turned around, only to see her leaning coyly against the door, not moving closer.

"We've never done that before," she ventured, in a demure, yet pointed tone, clasping her hands together down in front of her.

He nodded slowly. "Right."

She gave a delicate cough. "So I thought that might merit some discussion."

"Like what about, specifically?" Ron asked, keeping his tone careful so she'd know he wasn't affecting ignorance. Even so, he did wonder a bit about what they were supposed to be discussing. Either she fancied him or she didn't, he reasoned, so there shouldn't have to be a big discussion. If there was a need for that, it usually meant something was wrong, didn't it?

And why was she still standing all the way over there?

For a panic-stricken, nauseous second, Ron almost considered fleeing.

Hermione shrugged, but her eyes were searching his face as if waiting for a specific reaction. "Like…do we do it again or not, that sort of thing."

Again, he nodded, but his voice seemed to crack a bit when he spoke next, sounding rather insubstantial. She'd confused him further, ironically enough, by being uncomplicated. It wasn't like Hermione at all. "Right, so…d'you want to?"

She watched him expectantly. "Do _you_?"

For a moment, Ron stood frozen, complicated internal organs seeming to contract and contort inside him. "Yes," he croaked, trying to moisten his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. If she could ask him to Slughorn's party, in effect sparing him of taking the first step, he considered this admission owed to her. He wanted to give something in return, even if it frightened him, because it sounded like she needed it, like she didn't dare take another step before he did.

He heard her draw a shallow breath. "Oh."

Ron scratched his head briefly before dropping his hand to his side again. "Er, there's always the next Hogsmeade weekend…" he suggested reluctantly. The Hogsmeade weekend seemed ages away, and he wasn't keen on having to wait until then to get a chance to explore this fragile, new thing further. Frightening as it was, waiting might be much worse.

"It doesn't necessarily _have_ to be a special occasion," Hermione clarified hastily, making Ron wonder if she was thinking along the same lines.

Relieved, he nodded. "Ah…it doesn't?" he asked in a bright tone.

Hermione shook her head, looking faintly flustered now. "No, we…just sort of have to be alone, I guess."

"We're alone now," Ron said, stating the obvious and worrying how she would interpret it. Would he sound forward to her? _Was_ he being forward?

She nodded, her gaze locking with his. "So it would seem, yes," she said, almost in a whisper. Ron stared back, attempting to decipher whether she was trying to convey her wishes or if she was simply making nervous conversation. She still wasn't moving from her spot by the door.

A memory, and the jolt of excitement that he associated with it, came back to him, then. After the party, she'd intended to take his hand before Harry interrupted them. Surely, he mused, surely it wouldn't be end-of-the-world-inducing stuff, simply taking her hand, would it?

Before he knew it, his arm was sticking stupidly into the air in front of him, like he was a child attempting to reach for a tin of sweets while being dragged away from the shop shelves by its parents. His hand convulsing slightly as if trying to grasp something intangible, he felt his face go hot, and made to withdraw his arm.

That's when he noticed she appeared to be drifting closer, a strange expression on her face.

For all of her usual criticism, he realized now, often when he felt at his most dense or vulnerable, or both (and especially lately), she actually didn't respond by being overbearing or impatient. No, there could be something tender and, unless he'd been imagining things, almost hopeful about the way in which she regarded him.

Almost like now. As if that silly, aborted attempt at reaching for her had been her cue, had boosted her confidence.

Hermione's big bushy hair seemed to float around her like mist as she moved, meeting his half-outstretched hand with her own and reeling herself in by their joined hands, closing the remaining space between them, her lips brushing his tentatively before retreating. Ron's brain had barely begun registering what was happening when she then stood up on tip-toe, flung her arms around his neck and brought her mouth against his once more.

Sensations rushed through him— warm, moist pressure on his mouth, sweet, damp breath on his face, clothed hips, stomach, breasts pressing against him, small, eager hands touching his hair and neck and ears— flickering across his mind like the frames of that ancient, choppy roll of Muggle film Dad had showed him once, each picture coming together to make a whole motion, a complete idea: Hermione Granger was kissing him.

A muffled, choked noise crashed against her mouth, his eyes wide, but then he came to his senses, managing to fumble his arms around her waist, anchoring her further to him, and somehow even managing to start moving his lips in tune with hers, responding, responding, letting every doubt be washed away; it didn't matter if he wasn't an expert, because she was here kissing him, not Krum or McLaggen.

When he mindlessly opened his mouth, progressing naturally by deepening the kiss, exploring the slippery other sides of her lips, feeling her breath mingle with his, he heard her sort of whimper in excitement, her grip on his hair tightening.

Ron groaned, letting his hands roam around on her narrow back, making them feel giant; if she'd ever uttered such a sound in the common room, he was certain he could've been knocked over by a quill.

"I'm just going to…erm," Hermione panted, then, struggling within her cloak, shifting, discomfited, in his arms, before finally slipping it off of her shoulders, leaving him faced with a thin, woollen jumper that was radiating her body heat in an intoxicating way, the shape and softness of her breasts suddenly much more clearly defined against his chest; swiftly, she recaptured his lips, and he felt like he might collapse then and there.

When her tongue slipped into his mouth, sliding and caressing warmly, his reaction was inevitable, hot bolts of shocked pleasure shooting down between his legs.

What with their close proximity, especially since she was currently winding her arm around his waist and squeezing him closer, he couldn't avoid it; his miserable cock was now bumping into her thigh through the straining front of his trousers. He heard her gasp, and he froze.

_This is it,_ he thought wildly, as he felt her embrace go slack, felt her pulling back just a little, _this is the moment where I bollixed it all up._

But she made a soft, trusting sound, then, giving him a look of affection before standing back up on tip-toe and hugging him to her, burying her face in his neck and inhaling, one hand groping gently at the hair on the back of his head…

Trapping his erection happily between them, the length of him rubbing against, through the material of her skirt, her slightly yielding abdomen and a hint of something very warm longer down...

"Ron…Ron, Ron, _Ron_…" she sighed into his skin with a sort of blissful desperation. She made his name sound like a life-saving incantation. He felt himself trembling, couldn't make himself stop, heard his breath escape him in shallow, sharp bursts, felt himself swallowing heavily, his throat feeling constricted.

"Hermione…" he moaned, large, clumsy hands descending, boldly finding her delicious arse cheeks and squeezing, lifting her and placing her bum on the nearest desk, pushing her further against him so they _met _properly at last; he felt her shudder, heard her grunting softly, felt her squirm. His entire body buzzed with pleasure. For fear of embarrassing himself by dirtying his trousers, he didn't actually _thrust_ much, just sort of kept them pushed _together_, gingerly rubbing himself between her thighs, against her woollen tights (her skirt was riding up now), his hands stroking her arms and her sides (straying close to her breasts, but always shying away), and then of course there was the kissing, all of which was in any case more than exciting enough for him right then, especially considering his lack of experience.

If her trembling and heavy breathing were any indication, it was exciting enough for Hermione, too.

"_Yes_," she insisted, ordered, begged; he lowered his mouth to her neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent, sucking at the vulnerable skin there. Whining softly, she threw her head to the side, giving him better access, clutching his shoulders and wriggling her hips a bit, so he reckoned he had to be doing something right. Jubilation fluttered in his chest when his questing lips encountered a thin, silver chain; she _was_ wearing his necklace.

It wasn't going to go much further right then, he knew, she knew, they knew— he suspected, with mixed emotions, that there would be no removal of clothing at all; it was probably too cold for that here, anyway— but it was _yes_ and that was all that mattered. Admittedly, like most teenage boys would in this situation, he wished he knew if he was allowed to touch her tits or not. A sense of hormonal logic told him he _should_ be, considering he was allowed to rub his _crotch_ against hers, but he wasn't willing to risk having his unaccustomed hands squeeze her too hard or in the wrong place (or both) or fiddle her nipples inexpertly, like he was tuning a wireless, jarring them out of the euphoric haze of sensations when she squealed in discomfort (or, goodness forbid, even pain), pushed him away and accused him of being a ham-fisted git. No girl should have that as the prominent memory of her first proper snogging session (Krum didn't count). No, he should build up both his own and her confidence in his abilities at least a _little_ before he allowed himself to make any big blunders.

He assumed (or hoped) there would be other opportunities for exploring her tits, anyway, and didn't girls respect you when you held off a bit (there was that hope again)?

The next kisses seemed wetter, warmer, her body growing more pliant against his, her breath practically steaming up his face. She couldn't have been more enthusiastic, more…well, _interested_ in him even in his wildest dreams. He'd never felt this welcome or wanted before. She was so _good_, she was honestly the most wonderful person he'd ever met (he'd meant that, he'd realized now, oh, how he'd meant that), and she'd _accepted_ him, she liked _him_ as a person, she cared about him, she desired him as a man— and bloody hell, all he could think about were_ tits_? Well, that and the fervent wish to please her, to treat her right, but still…tits. Ron assumed she'd use that giant brain of hers to interpret what he _really_ felt if he ever said anything near as barmy, though, and she'd have the chance, too, because to the best of his abilities, he'd try to avoid throwing any cryptic moodiness in her face and storming off again, ever.

He'd never imagined she'd be like _this_ in this sort of situation; if he had imagined a few different scenarios (which he'd probably never admit), they usually involved descriptive words like shy, domineering, critical, nervous, hesitant or moralistic (because evidently he was a masochistic prat even in his fantasies, and he'd still wanted her). This, how she _actually_ behaved, was a very thrilling surprise indeed.

He wondered if he really knew her.

He wondered (again) if he was going to have more chances to know her better, because this was—

"_Brilliant_," Ron declared thickly, nuzzling her neck, pressing his swollen, hot mouth against her throat.

Again, Hermione hugged him tightly, warmly, as if she was overwhelmed with emotion. "Ron…" she sort of moaned, then, and he knew what it meant.

Groaning, he sagged against her, face nestled in her springy, mad hair. "I suppose we'd better go, right?"

"Mmm," she murmured into his shoulder, nodding. It lifted his spirits a bit that she sounded rather reluctant.

"What're we supposed to do tomorrow?" he asked when they broke apart, wincing a little as he discreetly adjusted himself in his trousers. The appreciative smirk she sent him as she slid off the desk told him he hadn't been as discreet as he'd thought.

She came up to him as he stopped by the door. "That should be a conversation for tomorrow, shouldn't it?" suggested Hermione in an almost sleepy voice, fingers trailing down his arm. This surprised him; Hermione Granger was never one to do tomorrow what she could just as well do today.

Ron still pursued his coveted answers. "When we come down to breakfast and go to classes and everything, how are we supposed to act? I mean," he ventured valiantly, his voice dropping to a deep, tender murmur, "…what'm I allowed to _do_?"

For a moment, Hermione looked so astounded that he had to wonder what sort of naughty implications she thought he'd intended by his question. "Well, I think public displays of affection are a bit inappropriate at school," she stated primly, as if she'd abruptly returned to herself. Considering she said this as she was smoothing down her hair after their rather heated encounter, however, the picture of the proper, responsible young lady she was trying to sound like was a bit ruined (not that he minded).

Then there was the darkening suction mark left behind by his lips on her neck. As he wondered whether a quick 'Espiskey' would take care of it or not, he realized he also wasn't sure whether he actually _wanted_ her to get rid of it just yet. Part of him wanted everyone to know. What with her keen attention to detail, however, she'd probably spot it in the mirror while brushing her teeth, and it'd be gone by breakfast tomorrow.

"Not to mention it'd definitely be weird in front of Harry," Ron reminded them both, sighing. He loved the bloke, and he always enjoyed spending time with him, but it occurred to him now that they were in front of Harry _a lot_. When would they get another chance to be alone? Well, there _were_ always prefect duties to tear them away, he remembered, feeling a bit more cheerful.

Nodding her agreement, Hermione fell silent. "I suppose…I suppose a bit of hand holding every once in a while wouldn't be out of the question," she said slowly, as if she was turning the words around in her mouth to see how the concept tasted. "As long as we keep a sense of the right time and place for it, you know…"

Ron swallowed; the now very real prospect of publically revealing to everyone that something had indeed changed between himself and Hermione was both daunting and alluring. "That'd be excellent," he all but squeaked.

The way his response made her glow, her bright smile dimpling her cheeks, would stay with him for the rest of the week.

"Still bothered about 'blonde girls'?" he teased, grinning softly at her as she picked up her cloak and they left the empty classroom.

"Well, over the holidays I considered the fact that you'd actually paid more attention to the _chocolate cake_ than Luna at the party, so…" Hermione trailed off with a wry smile, closing the classroom door behind them. "Anyway…can you tell Harry we'll all talk about the Malfoy thing properly tomorrow? I wouldn't mind a word about the Minister, either…but right now I think I'm going to head upstairs to unpack."

After they'd said goodnight, exchanging a couple of hurried, sheepish kisses, he let her go up to the common room while he excused himself to the bathroom (to have a quick wank, although he left out this last part). In between reliving bloody excellent moments of what had just transpired between them, he pondered what she'd think of him if she'd known what he was up to— and then he wondered whether she might possibly be doing the very same thing, in her own way, right at that very moment, because while she wasn't a horny teenage bloke, she was still a teenager, and didn't girls also— they had to, didn't they, surely they would, or they'd go mad, and surely even Hermione Granger had to— and of its own volition, his hand sped up, and he found his relief picturing this very notion.

"Where've you been, Ron?" Harry asked innocently from where he was sitting on his bed, reading, as Ron more or less sneaked into the boys' dormitory. "Did something happen to make you forget the new password?"

Grateful that none of the other boys were there yet, Ron was able to relax at least a little, even if he knew his ears were flaming red. "Shut up, Harry," he said, grinning as he picked up a pillow and threw it at Harry, who laughed.

Harry was silent as Ron began unpacking his trunk, but when he eventually spoke, something about the seemingly casual inquiry made Ron look up in surprise from putting away his socks. "All right, Ron?"

The two boys looked at each other for a moment, Ron fiddling with the roll of greying socks he was still holding and Harry absentmindedly ruffling the pages of his book. "Yeah, I reckon so," Ron replied at last, and Harry seemed to relax a bit, "I told her all about the Minister's little yuletide visit, by the way," he added, flashing a grin and getting one in return, "she was _livid_, of course— oh, and she said to tell you we'd discuss Malfoy tomorrow. Maybe she's had a few thoughts over the holidays, dunno."

"Good," said Harry, giving him a nod and a smile before returning to his book, which Ron now noticed was the volume about Quidditch he'd received as a Christmas present from Hermione.

Ron understood the apprehension in Harry's voice and expression, because he himself still felt uncertain about what would happen between him and Hermione, how he would deal with this raw, new situation or how it would affect the friendship between the three of them, but for now, Harry at least seemed to think, or hope, that it was a good thing, which helped a little.

When Hermione came down to breakfast the next day and he noticed (only he, because he was looking for it; or if anybody else _did_ notice, they didn't comment) that the mark on her neck still remained there, that helped a little as well.

**The End.**

* * *

**Author's note: **Sorry for the delay. For some reason, I suddenly got sidetracked by writing _Coraline_ fanfic (of all things) and even *gasp* an original story with not so much rat in it, uh, I mean, with no fanfic stuff at all, which naturally gets to be prioritized over fanfics.

**Ron's acronyms:** Ron being immature and Hermione being charmed by it despite herself, but not necessarily my personal idea of the height of humour. :P

Well, things are finally looking up for Ron and Hermione! But poor Ron...this still doesn't mean he'll escape the poisoned mead in chapter eighteen! ;)

Or, uh…y'know…the _war_. Shit. Ah well. :P

I figured I'd let the Wretched Harmony take the initiative to kiss Ronnie the Bear, considering she did so in the books. Just seemed right to me, I guess.

I hope you enjoyed it. :P And I have absolutely no idea why I ended up writing this entire story from Ron's perspective. It was never my intention. D:


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